All the Single Ladies (13 page)

‘I doubt that,’ she replies.

‘So where are we going after these drinks?’ I ask, changing the subject.

‘Let me come with you,’ says Luke.

‘Sorry, Luke,’ Ellie replies, spinning round. ‘There are some nights that just have to be girls only.’

The rest of the evening is a riot – and a blur. What I can confirm is that we visit lots of bars, get tipsier than intended, run out of money (at least I do, until Ellie
insists on thrusting twenty quid into my hand so I can keep going; she is a woman who has never known when to stop), and – despite a brief melancholy (Jamie-induced) moment – the whole
thing is unrelentingly enjoyable.

Ellie, who has always been one of life’s party animals, is on fire tonight. Although it never ceases to amaze me how much booze she can put away, and at a rate that makes Jen and me look
like amateurs. It is insane o’clock when I get home – don’t ask me for anything more specific.

When I wake the next morning, it’s with a hangover that could justify a spell in intensive care. I stay in bed for as long as possible, then get up to shower and dress. Actually, that
makes it sound like a perfunctory affair, whereas the reality is that it takes over an hour to perform the most basic ablutions. When I return to the living room, I glance at my phone and realize
there’s a missed call . . . from Jamie.

I phone back immediately.

‘Sam. Erm. Thanks for returning my call.’ His voice is slightly strangled, as if he’s trying to come across as relaxed but isn’t quite managing it.

‘No problem.’ My voice is so gravelly it sounds as though someone has taken a nail file to my tonsils. ‘What’s up?’

‘Does something have to be up?’ he asks awkwardly. ‘I mean, we’re still friends, aren’t we? We’ll always be friends. And . . . well, I just thought I’d
phone to see how you are. In a friendly sort of way.’

‘Well,’ I reply, torn between delight and suspicion, ‘I’m fine, Jamie. Had a great evening last night and am pottering round the house this morning. You know, the usual
Sunday-morning stuff. There’s a lot less to tidy up now you’re not around.’

As soon as the words are out of my mouth I panic that this sounds like a dig about Jamie’s lack of natural ability on the housework front. If you put a bottle of Cif in front of my
ex-boyfriend, he’d think he was supposed to squeeze it on his chips. Nevertheless, the last thing I want is to bring that up and come across as a nag.

‘Oh . . . by that I just mean, you know . . . that there aren’t two of us any more. That’s all,’ I add hastily.

‘Don’t worry,’ he laughs. ‘I’m sure it’s not just that. I know I’m not the tidiest of people. Luke keeps going mad about it. I don’t treat his
cushion covers with the respect they deserve, apparently.’

I join in with his laughter and it strikes me how good it feels to have a giggle with him again. To make the simplest human connection and remind ourselves of the bond we’d had for so many
years.

‘Speaking of whom,’ he coughs, suddenly serious, ‘I believe you bumped into Luke last night.’

‘Yes. Did he mention it?’

He pauses. ‘Hope he didn’t come on to you,’ he laughs, but it’s a different kind of laugh from before; this one is laced with a distinct note of unease. It strikes me
that he’s seriously worried about this prospect. I’m about to leap in and reassure him, when something stops me.

‘Well, you know Luke,’ I say lightly.

There is a stutter of silence and for a second I wonder if I’ve gone too far. ‘I’ll take that as a yes, then, shall I?’

‘Oh Jamie – Luke’s a friend, you know that,’ I say breezily, deliberately avoiding the question.

‘Well, good. I mean, I know I have no right to tell you who you can and can’t see . . . but, well, Luke would be difficult to cope with.’

‘I understand,’ I reply, though I can’t help feeling a bit miffed that he’s decided that I’m agreeing to not see Luke. He can’t have it every way; the man has
dumped me.

‘But you’re right about seeing people,’ I continue pointedly. ‘I’ve never been one of those girls who spend their life wallowing. I was never going to sit at home
weeping into my wine glass. I know I need to get out there and rebuild my life – a different life. And, you know, have fun.’

He pauses. ‘Fun?’

‘Well, of course!’ I reply enthusiastically. ‘I’m not going to spend the rest of my life howling to ‘I Will Survive’, am I? I’m going to meet new
people, do a bit of . . . living.’ The word sounds wonderfully provocative.

‘Living?’ he croaks.

‘Yep! I knew you’d understand.’

‘Hmm,’ he replies.

‘Hmm,’ I repeat.

Neither of us speaks for a moment and it strikes me that, for the first time in as long as I can remember, the break in conversation feels awkward. When you’ve been with someone for six
years, you learn to live with their silences. They’re not oppressive or difficult; they’re part of life. But this is one silence I feel compelled to fill.

‘I’d better run. I’ve got a million things to do.’

‘Of course. Oh . . . Sam?’

‘Yes?’

‘I really miss you,’ he says softly. ‘I thought you ought to know.’

So he really misses me. Great. Which does beg the question of why he’s still intending to fly off to bloody South America.

Despite my niggling frustration, I nevertheless have a spring in my step by the time I reach Ellie’s. Well, sort of. My physical state impedes anything approaching springiness –
it’s closer to a trudge. But a cheerful trudge, I’ll give it that.

‘You’re more upbeat because you feel you’re winning back some control,’ says Alistair, filling up the kettle as Ellie chases Sophie round the living room in an attempt to
win back the mascara she swiped.

‘I love it when you psychoanalyse me, Alistair.’

‘I bet you say that to all the guys,’ he grins.

I’d only popped over to drop off the twenty pounds I borrowed from Ellie last night; but she’d forgotten about it, presumably because several billion brain cells were obliterated by
the booze she put away. An hour later, Alistair has somehow been sucked into a therapy session.

‘It makes sense, though. I hate that the decision to end the relationship was made for me.’ I lean forward to take a biscuit from the tin. It isn’t my first. ‘These
hangover munchies are chronic,’ I mutter.

He raises an eyebrow. ‘My girlfriend claimed you hardly drank anything last night.’

‘I can’t speak for her, only myself,’ I say diplomatically. ‘And the only thing that would perk me up this morning is plunging my head in a vat of Red Bull.’

‘I’ll make you a PG Tips instead,’ he says, splashing boiling water in the cups and leaning against the work surface as he folds his arms. ‘When the end of a relationship
is instigated by one party, it’s natural for the other to experience contradictory feelings. Anger, frustration, desperation. Something’s been snatched away from you, without you having
any say. So as well as the loss of a person you love, you’ve also experienced a loss of power. The fact that Jamie’s insecure about the idea of Luke being around you has made you feel
as though you’ve regained some of that.’

‘Should I be paying you by the hour for this?’ I ask.

He smirks and finishes making the tea. ‘Consider this a freebie.’

He hands me a cup of tea as Ellie and Sophie crash into the kitchen, giggling hysterically.

‘Have you seen this?’ Ellie laughs, scooping up Sophie and prizing away a mascara wand, which has already been smeared all over Sophie’s face.

‘She’s done a better job than I was capable of this morning,’ I grin.

Ellie kisses Sophie on the cheek before using a baby wipe to remove her efforts with the make-up.

‘Atty Sam, Atty Sam, I going to be a bridemaid,’ she announces.

‘Wow! Are you?’ I gasp.

‘Alistair’s sister, Cecilia, is getting married,’ Ellie adds, showering Sophie with kisses. ‘And she’s going to have the most gorgeous bridesmaid in the whole wide
world.’

‘I going to have flowers,’ Sophie tells me proudly. ‘And posh shoes. And I go to walk down the owl.’

‘Oooh,’ I reply dutifully, assuming the ornithological reference was a mistake. ‘So when’s the big day?’ I ask Ellie.

‘In eighteen months. Which, given that she’s asked every morning this week if the wedding’s today, suddenly feels like a long way away.’

Sophie dives into the living room and Ellie runs after her.

‘So, Alistair – one more question. What else can I do to make Jamie realize he shouldn’t go?’

He frowns uncomfortably. ‘I can’t answer that, Sam. Only you and Jamie can work out between you whether you want to be together.’

‘But it’s not as simple as that,’ I assure him.

He takes a deep breath. ‘Can I ask one thing?’

I nod.

‘It’s perfectly natural for you to want him back, but it’s also important to stand back and take a look at your relationship as it really was. Was it quite as perfect as you
remember? And . . . how can I put this? Are you one hundred per cent certain that getting back together with Jamie is the right thing for you both?’

I feel stung by the question, unable to believe he has to ask. ‘Alistair, Jamie wasn’t perfect. I’ve never said that he was. I know he had his flaws. God, he would drive me mad
on occasions. But no one is perfect. I’m certainly not. And should we be together? Absolutely. Without a doubt.’

I have a confession. One I’d never have made to Jamie; one I rarely discuss with even my best friends, because the last thing I want is anyone feeling sorry for me. I
love weddings. No, I adore them. I’m intoxicated by their glorious romanticism and dizzying extravagance.

The reason this confession is tricky is that I’m in love with a man I know beyond a shadow of a doubt will never marry me. It’s nothing personal; he’ll never marry anyone.

Jamie is naturally suspicious of the institution of marriage, stating simply that he ‘doesn’t believe in it’, as if he’s referring to the tooth fairy. Given that his
parents are still together after thirty-five years, it’s unclear why he takes such a dim view of the concept, but he’ll never change.

Which I’m relatively relaxed about. That’s relatively. I buy the argument about it being only a bit of paper, and I am aware that almost half of marriages end in divorce. I’m
equally aware that this absolute conviction is part of what makes Jamie the man he is. The man I love.

Yet if you asked whether a tiny bit of me ever hoped he might change his mind . . . well, that’s a different matter.

Before I met him, I’d assumed it’d be something I’d do one day.

So when the subject first came up at his friend Bella’s wedding, about a year after we met, it did give me a bit of a jolt. It was a beautiful day and the setting for the nuptials was
Liverpool’s most romantic venue: the Victorian Palm House in Sefton Park. It’s a gorgeous domed conservatory in which sunlight glitters through the glass, illuminating your eyes and
warming your skin.

The bride looked unbelievable. She’d lost three stones via a combination of Slimming World and pole-dancing lessons, a pastime she’d embraced so enthusiastically that she’d had
a ‘pole’ installed in their soon-to-be marital home. It was slap bang in the middle of their living room so she could practise gyrating without moving from the telly. Curious elderly
relatives were simply informed that it was a
Grand Designs
-style architectural feature, and no one seemed to question why it was the only semi in the street to boast one.

All was as it should be at a wedding. There was champagne, tipsy mothers-in-law, flirty bridesmaids, a nervous groom, one distant relative in a too-slutty dress, a pushy photographer and the
optimum level of high jinks from the ushers.

‘What a lovely day,’ I sighed as Jamie and I went for a walk, taking a break from proceedings.

‘Of course it is,’ he smiled, gazing into my eyes as he pushed a strand of hair from my face. ‘I’m with the woman I love.’

‘Smooth talker,’ I smirked.

‘Ha! You do look amazing, though, Sam. Have I told you that?’

‘Once or twice.’ He hadn’t stopped. He kissed me gently on the lips then pulled back.

‘Unlike me. God, I hate this gear,’ he laughed, shaking his head as he looked down despairingly at his suit.

‘You look great,’ I insisted, not entirely truthfully. He didn’t look awful, but you know the way some people gain immediate stature when they put on a suit? I’m afraid
Jamie wasn’t one of them.

He acquired that awkward look of someone who’d picked up his first Primark two-piece in advance of an appearance at Youth Court. Not that the suit was cheap – far from it. Some men
are simply sexier in jeans and T-shirts and my boyfriend was undoubtedly one of them.

‘We’d better go back, hadn’t we?’ I asked.

‘Yep. Back to the madness,’ he grinned.

‘Oh I’ve been to more riotous weddings,’ I said. ‘Besides, it’s not yet nine. There’s plenty of time for things to get out of hand.’

‘I wasn’t referring to that. I mean the whole thing’s crazy.’

I frowned. ‘What whole thing?’

‘Weddings,’ he replied matter-of-factly. ‘What must this have cost Bella and Daniel? Five grand?’ It was at least twice that. ‘And for what? An excuse for a party.
Insanity.’

I said nothing.

‘Hope that doesn’t disappoint you,’ he grinned, throwing his arm around my waist casually. ‘Because if you’re after the puffy dress and big “do”,
you’re with the wrong man.’

I rolled my eyes. ‘Of course not! I mean, you’re right. And I agree.’

I can’t put my finger on why I gave that response. I suppose in that split second I realized something. That being together was what mattered.

That’s the happy ending – not the other paraphernalia. Even
Four Weddings and a Funeral
, a film that revolves around the damn things, ended with the hero and heroine not
getting hitched. So, actually, part of me thought this made Jamie more, not less, romantic.

‘However,’ he said, serious all of a sudden, ‘there is one thing I do like about weddings.’

‘Oh?’